Speak Your Mind
by belle rouge
Summary: An away mission renders Chekov bed-ridden...and telepathic. But he soon comes to find that his mysterious new ability to hear the private musings of the crew around him is not as irritating as he first thought. DISCONTINUED.
1. Prologue

_PROLOGUE_

_Summary: After a risky away mission ends with Chekov being sent to Sick Bay with a concussion, he wakes to find himself equipped with the uncanny ability to hear the thoughts of the crew around him. At first, the ability proves to be one of the most frustrating nuisances Chekov has ever had to deal with in his life...but after hearing one particular opinion of him from a woman that he has found himself attracted to ever since his days at the Academy, Chekov realizes that, perhaps, it's not so bad as he thought._

_

* * *

__He turned, his muscles tautening as they braced themselves for the impact before his mind could even register the imminent danger. The deafening whir began to amplify, the room vibrating as the circuits overloaded. There was no time to escape._

"_Chekov, look out!" The Lieutenant's voice, muffled by the mind-numbing blare of the machines, resounded behind him._

_Before Uhura could reach the stunned navigator, a break in the system caused the laser to fire. The thin red line collided with Chekov's body and the strength of the beam propelled the navigator into the crumbling wall behind him._

* * *

When he woke, Chekov found himself lying beneath cold, thin sheets. At first, the harsh glare of the lights and the pale, sterile surroundings which met his blurred vision gave him cause for alarm. _Am I…dead?_

However, the feeling of slow, omnipresent dread settling over him in that terrible dream-like haze began to diminish as he caught sight of Nurse Chapel nearby. Slowly, his hearing began to settle into reality and he detected other footsteps as well and realized that there were a handful of nurses on duty. He counted five, exempting Chapel from the estimation, and was thrilled to realize he could still count. A sigh of utter relief escaped him, capturing Chapel's attention; she cast him a half-hearted glance and he noticed how _exhausted_ her young, thin face really looked beneath the garish white lights. In fact, the only lively attribute she'd seemed to retain in the midst of her fatigue was her cropped, polished blonde hair.

She turned back to the database, her nimble fingers dancing over the touch screen as she began accessing the patient files. But even as she turned away, Chekov began to hear a voice..._her _voice to be exact. And he had a sinking feeling deep in the pit of his aching stomach that though it was her sultry, soft-edge tone he heard, he couldn't be certain if she was _actually_ speaking them aloud. He couldn't mistake the sound if he tried...it was renowned for its unique qualities, and he had suffered the effects of a short-lived crush on the woman and that angelic voice of hers for at least three weeks.

_Oh, good…he's awake. Time to alert McCoy._

_Oh, heavens above. Why do I have to be the one to have to report to that rat bastard? God, how I hate him sometimes. When is he going to ask me on a date? I've been hearing from Sara-Cruz that he's been harboring some sort of feelings for me ever since before the Narada incident, and even if it's just mild interest it should at least account for _something_, right? I've been waiting for a month and still…nothing! I might as well walk around naked if I want to catch his attention, but…then again, he might still be too busy being an ass to notice that either!_

He shook his head, trying to revive his battered senses as he endeavored to ignore the reception of such unwanted reflection. A few blinks and a wiggle of his nose later, he found himself staring at the woman as she pivoted on the heel of her boots to greet him. Her mouth wasn't moving, he could be sure of it now; but what he couldn't fathom was why her _voice _still seemed capable of echoing throughout the room.

_Maybe I should think of trying that. It would certainly be surprising!_

"Are you…talking to me, Nurse Chapel?" He attempted warily.

She looked up from her PADD and the incessant chatter seemed to stop abruptly for one moment. But as her expression molded into one of assertive vigilance, the talking resumed.

_Oh hell, he must've really suffered some damage down there. I checked his stats thoroughly, there shouldn't be any reason for hallucination-_

Chekov vaguely felt the pressure of a curious frown form over his brow. "I'm not hallucinating."

At this, Chapel dropped her PADD out of sheer surprise, her eyes widening as she realized there was something very wrong about the young navigator. "Someone get McCoy down here!"

A nurse nearby replied, "I'm on it!"

For a moment, Chapel was absolutely silent as she thoroughly traced his figure with a tricorder, her expression seeming to darken as she realized there was nothing physically wrong with him. There had been a few lacerations and contusions from the brute force of impact, but it had already been confirmed that he had not suffered any immense cerebral damage or hemorrhaging.

At last, she met the boy's soft, tentative gaze. _God, he looks like a Botticelli angel…_Chekov felt the heat in his cheeks rise as he heard her words, spoken so gently, as if she were whispering. But when he saw, again, that her mouth had not moved, all traces of the approaching flush had dissipated with the comprehension of such a private statement. It was almost as if…her _thoughts_ were accessible to him.

"Chekov, I want you to be _very_ clear and honest with me, alright?" She searched his gaze, finding only apprehension in their wearied, watery blue shade. "Whose voice are you hearing?"

He inclined his head, almost as if he were confused by the inquiry. "Yours, Nurse Chapel…I'm hearing _your_ voice."

* * *

  
I'm not sure if all the chapters will be rather short...I'm thinking maybe 2k to 3k words per update. Anyway, enjoy! As for the explanation regarding Chekov's sudden telepathic abilties, I already have it! I'm doing as much research as I can on the subject so I can make it as realistically Trek-friendly as possible. As for Chekov's accent - I'm going to let you just use your imagination. Not because I'm lazy, just because I think it sounds campy written out and I want Chekov's characterization to be different than that.

Disclaimer - I do not own Star Trek. If I did, Chekov would most definitely be a nice addition to my list of worldly possessions. Hah. Alas, he belongs to Gene Roddenberry and J.J. Abrams.


	2. Hypothesis

CHAPTER ONE:  
_Hypothesis_

by Opaque Mask

* * *

At first, Dr. Leonard "Bones" McCoy was dumbfounded. He could find nothing physically wrong with the kid, thus being successfully evaded by the cause. However, he was not spared the effect; he'd been hearing about all the fuss the navigator had been making ever since he walked through the double-plated doors, in forms of little wisps of whispers and side-long glances originating from the disquieted nurses.

"Doctor, I have already gone through the process of checking his stats." Christine, the only one that hadn't been thoroughly spooked by the boy's sudden streak of madness, prodded from behind him. Chekov found himself wishing the good doctor would relent already to her advances; if not for the sake of his own sanity, then at least for the sake of the Russian. He'd been spared not one detail pertaining to the frustrations of the lovesick Christine…_grouchy old sawbones, not worth a bean...and how he has the gall to be sarcastic with me, as if he wasn't rude enough to begin with!_

By the time McCoy had arrived, Chekov's head was spinning from such dizzying, not to mention irrelevant, thoughts.

But Bones, on the exterior, remained as grave and silent as carved stone while he outlined the boy's willowy figure with his tricorder. Meanwhile, Chekov's head was overflowing with petulant grumbling, and the voice was so utterly familiar in the midst of its condescending tangent that the navigator could not be mistaken in identifying its owner if he tried…much to his dismay.

At last, he sighed and set the tool down on the nearby tray. "Chapel, page the Captain. The stubborn hobgoblin too…I'm afraid we'll need his scientific expertise."

"Have you discovered a diagnosis?"

Chekov watched as Bones set his jaw in one thin, rigid line of defeat. He knew the doctor was hardly one to capitulate to ignorance, even if victory was so far out of his grasp that it was hardly a concept worth deliberating. But here was Chekov, watching the defiant expression harden as his stubble-peppered face gradually shed its waning frown of confusion.

"Nothing so far." He suddenly turned on the mystified nurse in his fit of disillusionment. "I believe I just told you to page the Captain."

Though not altogether surprised at his shortness of temper, she was stunned by the swiftness of it. "Well, sir, I-"

"This isn't a negotiation, Chapel," he growled, dark eyes as hard as cold slate. "It's an _order_; get Kirk down here and make it fast."

_Goddamn woman always has to defy me. Who does that stubborn little filly think she is? The goddamned Queen of Sheba? Full of piss and vinegar, that's for damn sure. God, don't get me started on those _pheromones_…_

Chekov found himself in a rather compromising situation. For one, he was harboring the innate urge to remark that the doctor's non-existent or otherwise frustrated sex life was none of the navigator's concern, partially out of that instinctive sense of courtesy his father had drilled into him as a child; it was rude to probe into the privacy of others, not that Chekov could necessarily help the fact as of late…

Another part of him couldn't withhold the deep-threaded desire to have the quick, tittering thrum of his own mathematically-oriented thoughts be the only ones filling his head. None of this relationship drivel; he had enough irritating reminders that his own love life was unsurprisingly dormant, and was not too thrilled to have to deal with Chapel's and McCoy's as well. Mostly, he turned his attention to work and, while off duty, engaged in various diversions to keep his focus. There was nothing like a particularly difficult quantum physics challenge to steer his overactive mind away from unwelcome topics.

Occasionally, however, that familiar black shroud of silence that came with blessed indolence was embraced. It was a rare moment that Chekov found himself unappreciative of his perpetually moving mind, but there were moments in which isolation was graciously received.

Now, he mused blankly, it would surely be reduced to extinction with the discovery of his newly found gift…which was more than likely a _curse_.

He was thankful for the swift arrival of his superiors, thus cutting off the unrelenting flow of reflections in the doctor's mind and muttered a small Russian prayer of gratitude for their haste. The Captain waltzed in, the same abundance of bravado present in even the deliberation of his pace. Spock dutifully and wordlessly followed him, his long, pale hands clasped behind his back and his expression seemingly frozen in its unchanging formality.

When both officers at last reached the boy's bedside, neither of them spoke a word as they appraised him. At once, Chekov felt like an experiment just a second shy of being prodded and poked with curious, gloved hands.

But as Kirk's eyes softened, he was reminded of the Captain's unspoken affection for every single member of the bridge crew. Spock merely scrutinized with what seemed to be cold indifference, but Chekov could see the flecks of inescapable warmth in his shielding gaze.

Spock spoke first. "I presume by your summoning, doctor, that Ensign Chekov is recovered and pending a medical review?"

For Chekov's sake only, Bones managed to keep his unruly dislike for the first commanding officer carefully subdued. "No. I called both of you down here for a very different reason…I can't seem to find out what the kid's problem is. He claims he's hearing voices."

"Sounds like hallucinating to me," Kirk offered, averting his eyes to Bones. "But I know you…you're too smart for that. If it was something that simple, you would've ruled it out already."

"Huh. Well that's distracting…now I'm going to have to consider whether or not I should take that as a compliment, Jim." Bones quipped darkly, his brow knitting and casting cruel shadows over his accusatory stare.

"If I may, Keptain," Chekov's bright eyes were met with Kirk's full attention. "The woices are not random. I can easily identify each to its owner."

A small, almost undetectable flicker of amusement crossed the Commander's features. "Perhaps it would be prudent to inquire after the symptoms from the patient himself. He is, as you can observe, reasonably competent for interrogation."

All three of them looked to Chekov, and he suddenly felt a long, disorienting heat wave wash over him, something very much akin to the pressure of awkwardness. Well, how was he supposed to know? He figured he'd transfer the task of figuring out what sort of wires had been crossed in him to the doctor, seeing as the man was renowned for his genius in the medical field. He had already told them exactly what was going on beneath those buck-wild curls of his; what else was there to report?

"Alright, whiz-kid," the Captain remarked. "Enlighten us."

After finding that his first attempt at explaining himself and his oddity to the trio had failed, Chekov assumed it would be futile to use the same method again. Instead, he began to search the room for an alternate approach and as his eyes fell immediately on the rigid posture of the Commander, he was instantly struck with an idea.

"For example…" He cleared his throat, the navigator's bright, vivacious eyes fixated on his superior. "Commander Spock is currently assessing the accuracy of the coordinates set for the course laid for Ceti Alpha V."

Kirk turned to the silent Vulcan standing at his side. "Is he right, Spock? Is that what you're thinking?"

Spock did not even return his Captain's questioning glance. His dark eyes, black and stagnant like obsidian, merely flashed while a wave of illuminating intrigue swept over their hollow shade. He stared unremittingly at the young, pale Ensign. "_Fascinating_."

"I'll take that as a yes," Bones deadpanned. He then turned, and Chekov caught a tendril of cognitive appreciation for a certain woman's figure as it glided instinctively through the doctor's mind. "Chapel, we're going to have to have Ensign Chekov here in a Hyperencephalogram chamber in five minutes. Got it?"

_Mazel tov, to the both of you, _Chekov mused bitterly.

* * *

With his eyes as wide as he hoped they'd ever be, Chekov found himself staring directly into the solid white wall across from him. Unnerved, he tried to think of something abstract – wonderfully intangible things, like metamathematics and quantum mechanics equations.

For as long as he could remember, he had been touched with the overwhelming presence of some wild sort of claustrophobia. In retrospect, it had been one horribly disguised blessing and a curse all wrapped up in one terrifying package. But one night, as his sights locked on the never-ending pinprick of stars overhead, like shards of glowing white universe caught in terrestrial sky, he found his inspiration for joining Starfleet: to escape the pressing gravity of ennui.

The room he was sitting in was square; in fact, he'd not seen such a perfectly shaped quadrilateral since fifth grade geometry. The polished exoskeleton that covered the partitions cast garish streaks over his unsuspecting eyes and they burned slightly from the excess illumination, but that hardly seemed to be the extent of the painfully bland veneer. There was no color, not one semblance of reprieve from the blinding white exterior of the insufferably small room. Chekov deliberated the possibility of a man going crazy in the presence of such a parched, barren void; he felt like he would be the first to prove that the absence of color would certainly be the first step over the precipice of sanity.

It appeared to him that the little computerized frequencies that flittered around him like mechanical sound butterflies were the only signs of animation, but the navigator began to wonder if their purpose was only to agitate his nerves even more. They seemed superfluous; the automaton that remained motionless over his disheveled curls wasn't even moving.

"Hold your wild horses, kid. Your squirming like a bucking bronco isn't going to make the process go any faster." Bones' mechanized caustic tone resounded throughout the white-washed chamber.

_Thankfully for me, there are no wild horses in space, doctor. Just me and the jitters._

Chekov sighed and resorted to the persistently successful distraction of computing in his head. Conundrums and equations began to drift like smoke through his nervous mind, and had a calming effect on him. For a moment or two, while he waited for Bones to enter his authorization code and access the computer database, he was immersed in his own arithmetical haven.

Then the cold, merciless grip of the white cuffs tightened over his wrists and the chair began to edge slowly backwards. Chekov squeezed his eyes shut and attempted to release himself mentally from his sterile prison as the doors of the chamber slid back and the footsteps echoed across the hollow walls.

The first moment he heard her thoughts, Chekov breathed a mixed sigh of immense relief and vague irritation. For one, he wasn't alone…not anymore.

_That callous bastard, ordering me around like I'm some sort of android bent to his iron will. Do I have the word SLAVE tattooed on my forehead? Because it certainly feels that way..._

But why on earth did he have to send in _that_ woman and her infuriatingly one-tracked mind?

* * *

"Computer, engage Hyperencephalogram scan for Ensign Pavel Chekov, authorization code 9-5-Victor-Victor-2."

The computer obliged Bones' voice command and summoned the multi-colored image of Chekov's brain scan from the depths of its immaculate mechanical records.

"What are we looking at, Bones?" Kirk, who had returned from duty only moments ago, began to search the automated representation, his eyes straining aganst the concetrated glow that engulfed his features. Even without the blatant insight into his Captain's mind, Chekov's observation picked up on the hints of annoyance evident in the very roots of Kirk's agitated stance.

_For god's sake…what the hell is that? It looks like a kindergartener got a hold of a coloring stylus to me. Hell, I can't even tell if that's an image of a brain. And we all know that Chekov's beyond brilliant….that kind of in-your-face genius is a little hard to miss. _

_Unless he's lost his mind. Won't that make for an interesting pit stop at Federation Headquarters? Uh, yes…hello. We have our navigator here and he seems to think he can read people's thoughts. How's that for a punchline?_

Kirk's derisive inner commentary ceased as the doctor began to speak once more.

"This equipment's a little new, but they've given it a few test runs and it works just fine," Bones muttered, and by the tone of his voice Chekov could detect the hints of contrition there. "Just gotta figure out how to read it."

Bones indicated to the image that seemed decorated with scattered clusters of different colors. "This scan was taken after I sent Chapel in there with him. These yellow colors here…they indicate activity in parts of the brain that are active during hallucinations." He turned to the second scan, which was completely bereft of all color with the exception of the stark blue lining that comprised the outline of the photographed brain. "This was taken before Chapel entered the chamber."

Chapel glared at her superior officer, crossing her arms emphatically over her chest. "So, I was right…he's hallucinating."

"Damn it, Chapel…I never _said _that." He seethed openly, and Chekov watched as the man turned to the nurse. Bones' back was to him, but by his thoughts the navigator knew exactly what sort of expression was on the man's face…utter _exasperation_.

"I think we're all under the same impression, Bones. Explain it to us, would you?" Kirk offered, but upon hearing such a generalization Chekov could hear the wild alteration of Spock's profound disagreement with the Captain's statement. However, the Commander remained utterly silent in anticipation of hearing the doctor's theory.

Bones heaved a slightly ruffled sigh of irritation and refocused his attention on the results. "Well, I'm a doctor, not a neuron specialist. But I know a hallucination when I see one…the kid _is_ lucid." He began, his eyes drifting over Chekov to reconsider the Ensign, as if to confirm his own speculation. "So there seems to be only two options to choose from. One, Chekov is under the impression that he is telepathic. Or two…he really is telepathic. Take your pick, _Captain_."

Well, Chekov was rather undone by the doctor's narrow-minded hypothesis. Angered, hardly. But he would admit to being the slightest bit perturbed by both options…he had proved himself already by communicating the subject on the Commander's mind and Spock, as he knew Vulcans were incapable of lying, had conveyed his verification that Chekov had been completely accurate in his given inference..

The Commander glanced briefly at Chekov, whose eyes seemed to be dancing with anticipation as he realized the Vulcan's intentions. "If I may, Captain, propose my own theory regarding the situation. I believe I may have a logical explanation regarding the Ensign's unexpected new ability."

"By all means…feel at liberty to do so, Spock." Kirk affirmed.

The Commander stepped toward the rotating image, his eyes eagerly tracing the outline of the photographically simulated brain. For a moment, he seemed purged of his ability to speak at all; Chekov, standing not ten feet away, could hear not a speck of activity in his mind. It took him a moment of contemplation to realize that Spock was merely looking over his own conjecture before he acted on it. Another brief deliberation, he surmised.

As Chekov had guessed, Spock's mind seemed to regenerate its line of thought as he turned and faced the small group of spectators; his eyes were bathed in wraith-like light, stimulated by such an engaging conundrum.

The corners of Spock's mouth slipped quietly upward, and only Chekov witnessed the minute shift of expression. "I believe, Captain, that Ensign Chekov has somehow gained access to the _psionic field_."

* * *

AN: If you don't know what the psionic field is well, then...you'll have to either go look it up yourself or wait for the next chapter for enlightenment. However, the next chapter will permit a change of scenery...Chekov will be out of Sickbay and back on duty.

Thanks for the feedback. I appreciate it.

Disclaimer - It is obvious that I do not own Star Trek. If I did, I wouldn't be dabbling in fanfiction, I'd be mindlessly skipping through flower field with Chekov! Alas, TOS Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry (God rest his soul) and the reboot Trek XI, to J.J. Abrams.


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